What Have I Done?
by CaptiveFaRaMiRheart
Summary: House has found a new drug addiction, and its tearing his friendship with Wilson apart.


A/N: This really came out of the blue, right here. God knows we're going to need something to keep us entertained until January. Hope you enjoy this one. No slash. Heavy on angst.

DISCLAIMER: No, I do not own Wilson or House!

It began shortly after the incident with Tritter. He would come to work (late has and always been the new early for him) and bury himself in his new puzzle, his new case. But there was something different. Subtle changes, small things. Trips across the balcony into my office were slowly decreasing. I never thought much of it. He was busy, I thought. There would be time for the Oncologist once he was finished. It wasn't like his visits were the highlight of my day (alright I'm lying..they were). But then when he did visit, I couldn't help but notice the little changes. His body language, for example. He seemed reserved, deep in thought. I was the one who had to start the conversations. Then there was the time where I was eating my lunch...and he didn't take it. Now, you must be thinking what a blessing that must've been, but it wasn't. When House doesn't offer himself to my lunch, then something was defiantly up. It wasn't just that. It was the absence of his lunch in general. House was never bulk nor lanky, but a man's gotta eat. Still, I needed more evidence than just "House, you're not eating anymore".

So I waited for more signs. And sure enough, they kept appearing; One day, he wore the same shirt twice in a row. I knew he hadn't stayed at the hospital the previous night, because I had walked out with him. When I asked him about it, he kept his answer short and simple: "I did my laundry yesterday. This was all I had." I accepted the answer, and later filed it in the BS cabinet. "This was all I had"---who wears _every single _outfit in their closet before their next wash?

Few days later, he showed up with red-rimmed eyes. Either he was crying--which he would have locked himself in his office if the evidence was still visible--or hung-over, but I had drank his last beer just 2 days before. I didn't ask him about it, but he knew I was curious. The very next day, he didn't show up at all. And House _never _misses a day of work. I called him up and his answer was "I got a bum leg"--typical answer, but House has a "bum leg" every day...why was this day any different? The changes kept appearing everywhere. He was less annoying to Cuddy, then out of the blue, he lashed out on her. The limp was more unpronounced, but the popping of the pills increased. The lines under his eyes became more visible--

And then he misdiagnosed a patient.

He didn't make it a big deal, even though it was the "Britney's horror at the VMA's" for Princeton Plainsboro. Liver failure was **not** the same as _brain cancer_. They weren't even connected. His diagnoses was so bizarre that his interns didn't even question it. They went straight to Cuddy. And Cuddy went straight to House. Of course, she, too had noticed these changes in him, and finally found some courage to confront him about it.

"You need to get your act together," she had told him. "Whatever's going on in your life right now, you need to put that aside when you come to work. Because when you walk through that door, into my hospital, I need you to be a _doctor_!"

House did nothing but nod, and when she was finished, he left her office. Not a word said.

That night, I called him up. He didn't answer, so I drove over to his apartment. When I knocked, I still didn't get an answer. So I let myself in with my key. I called out his name. He wasn't in sight, I saw, as I looked around the room... Things were out of place. Pillows on the floor, papers stacked on the piano. It wasn't a complete disaster, but ironically, he was usually tidy. I walked over to his bedroom. I creaked open the door, slowly, and found him lying down on his bed, in fetal position. With caution, I walked over to him.

"House?" I whispered, coming around his side of the bed. He automatically flinched when he heard his name. I turned on the lamp on the night-table, and saw him trying to cover his face.

"House, are you ok?" I asked, feeling a little relieved that he was already up, and I had not woken him. I caught his wrists, trying to pull his hands away from his face, when I noticed something. He was clutching something in his left hand. With effort, I opened up his hand, and a little something fell out of it, dropping on the sheet. I picked it up: It was a small bag with a white, powered substance inside it.

It was then that I had gotten my answer.

I stared at the little bag of heroin for a few moments, unable to process this new information. Unbelievable. I looked up at him.

"What is this?"

"...What does it look like, Jimmy?" he muttered, laying down, his face covered under the sheets.

"Don't you 'Jimmy' me, House, I'm serious!" I replied, finding my first emotion to be anger. He took the sheet from his face, and looked at me. He didn't even look ashamed; he looked proud.

"Don't make a big deal about it, its not that serious...I'm not addicted."

"House, this IS a big deal!" I exclaimed. "You've been snorting heroin this whole time!"

"I'm fine! This stuff, it just...it takes the edge off," was his explanation.

"And let's you misdiagnose patients," I added, stubbornly. House sat up, his eyes on the bag in my hand.

"Just...just give me the bag, Wilson," he muttered, his hand ushering for the drug. I stared at him in disbelief. I noticed his pupils in the light;dialated.

"You're high," I said. House scoffed.

"I am not---"

"You were high at work, too," I continued, my voice rising.

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm high. You go ahead and take that bag, God knows you need it...there's plenty of more where that came from," he replied. I hung my mouth open, stunned. Then, House scoffed again.

"I'm kidding...see, you don't trust me!"

"You're...kidding?"

"That's my last bag, I promise."

"Well, your not getting it back!."

"Wilson!"

"House!"

House sighed, staring up at me for a few moments. "You want the bag, you have it. Take it."

I felt my eyebrows knit together. "You're only saying this because you _do_ have more somewhere."

"I don't! I really don't! That was...that was my last bag, I swear!"

Not that House swearing on things gain his trust from me. "Where did you get this from?" I asked. House looked down, up, anywhere but me.

"Some...clinic patient I had a while back..."

"Oh, 'some clinic patient' " I replied. That wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

"Look, if you want to lecture me about my 'newfound drug habit', do it tomorrow! I need some sleep." He growled. With that, he went back under the covers, leaving me sitting on the edge of his bed, stunned. He wasn't going to talk, not today at least. And I wasn't about to waste what little energy I had left in trying to get him to talk to me. He didn't even fight me for the powder. It was odd. He made _me _feel like the stupid one, making a big deal out of nothing...maybe it wasn't _really_ such a big deal. Maybe he wasn't that addicted.

I pocketed the little bag, turned off the lamp, and closed his door on my way out. I left the apartment, feeling nothing but anger with a touch of confusion. This was it. This was the cause of all his changes in the past few months. And he said it was "no big deal". Its not an addiction, I told myself. It was a phase. And that phase was going to pass...

...or so help me, God, as I watch my best friend fill himself with drugs, and become oblivion to even himself...

A/N: Wow, this was suppose to be a one-shot, but then I changed my mind. It'll be broken into chapters. Hope you liked this! Reviews are greatly appreciated!


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